


A Bastard Like Me

by WinterRose527



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-03-21 07:30:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13736085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterRose527/pseuds/WinterRose527
Summary: Jon made a promise to his dying brother, that he would find their siblings and restore the Starks in Winterfell. Jon goes to the Vale to rescue Sansa, but instead finds Alayne Stone, a bastard like him.***As backstory, Jon was not stopped from leaving the Night's Watch to join Robb in war. Robb and Catelyn still perished, but Jon found his way to Robb before he died.





	1. Never Forget What You Are

_“Promise me,” Robb begged, clenching Jon’s arm with more strength than a dying man should be able to muster. “Promise me.”_

 

_“I promise,” Jon said, trying desperately to stop the blood that seeped from his King’s wounds._

 

_“Farewell, Snow,” Robb said and the pressure was gone from Jon’s arm. There was no more belaboured breathing. No breathing at all._

 

 _“And you, Stark_ ,” _Jon whispered, pressing his forehead to his brother’s. His best friend, his rival._

 

*

 

Jon woke up in a sweat despite the chill. He’d had the dream again. He’d been having it more and more as he got closer to the Vale, closer to _her,_ Jon knew. 

 

He’d felt it when he’d neared the Umber’s dungeons, where he’d found little Rickon. He’d felt it when he touched the Heart Tree at Winterfell, sending a wordless promise to his little brother Bran that he would come for him too. North of the Wall, as far North as North goes until he found him. He’d felt it as he entered that tavern in the Riverlands, rescuing the little sister who no longer needed rescuing. He always felt it when he was close to fulfilling his promise to his brother.

 

Bran had told him, wordlessly as well, to get Sansa. _She has such a long way to fall, after climbing a ladder of ice._

 

It hadn’t taken long to figure out where Bran meant, and after a few well-placed bribes and some avid threatening, Jon had heard tales of a beautiful red-headed girl traveling in the company of Littlefinger.

 

There were many stories of his sister, the proper little lady who had dreamed of Knights and Songs only to have it all crash down, losing her Father and her childhood with one swing of a sword. 

 

They had never been close, he and Sansa. She, who didn’t tussle like Arya, who learned her courtesies as she learned to walk, wrapping them around her like armor. But she was a Stark. She was the flower of the North. And he’d made a promise to a man who loved her more than his own life. 

 

_You have to save them all. You have to retake the North. Find them all. You have to free Sansa. Protect her, promise me._

 

Jon stamped out the small fire and saddled his horse. With Ghost at his side he took off towards the Bloody Gate. 

 

_I will find Sansa, and I will protect her. I promise._

 

***

 

_I knew a girl once, who liked lemon cakes and songs, she had a mother and a father too. She was happy. She just didn’t know it._

 

This was the way Alayne woke every day. She was always Alayne, always. But in the mornings she thought of a different girl. This girl had auburn hair, brothers and a sister. Alayne had none of these things. It was better that way. Alayne had nothing to lose. Nothing but her own life, and some days, she wasn’t really sure what that was worthy anyway. 

 

She rose and dressed, banishing thoughts of this other girl as she pulled on her charcoal dress with it’s crows’ wings shoulders. She pulled her hair back, the way Father like to see it. 

 

_Don’t hide yourself, Alayne. Not from me._

 

_Yes, Father._

 

She made her way through the castle. She’d come to know it well in her time here. So she smiled at one guard and then another. They all but leered at her. Alayne was, after all, a Bastard. A beautiful one. They would not have dared leer at that other girl, but as she wasn’t here it didn’t matter. 

 

“Alayne!,” her cousin sweet-Robin called, banging his fork against the table. 

 

“Sweetling,” she cooed at him, sitting at the empty seat by his side. 

 

He cuddled into her, his little head against her breast and now no one in the Eyrie would dare leer at her. Not with their Lord nestled into her side. 

 

She ate her breakfast slowly, though Alayne was a bastard she was a high-born one, much like a boy she’d - no, another girl had - once known. She knew her manners. 

 

They are all but clearing the plates when a messenger comes in. 

 

“There’s a man at the Bloody Gate, My Lord,” the messenger said, addressing the child at her side, “A Jon Snow. Says he has urgent business. He’s a deserter of the Night’s Watch, a former Crow.”

 

 _Sansa would have been so happy to hear that name,_ Alayne thought as cold ran through her veins. 

 

“Then we should let him fly,” little Robin said and giggled a high-pitched, maniacal laugh. “Do you get it, Alayne?”

 

She felt her senses returning to her, “I do, sweetling, you are so _very_ clever,” she cooed. “But was Jon Snow not Ned Stark’s bastard? Forgive me, you are much more schooled than I…,” she said slowly, letting the thought take root in his addled mind, “Was Ned Stark not a great friend of your father’s and your own Uncle? Jon Snow is your cousin.”

 

“Only a bastard-cousin,” Robin said and Alayne’s face fell, for she too was a bastard. It was important that she be offended by this, she remembered. “I only-oh Alayne, I’m sorry. Bring my _cousin_ here,” Robin said to the messenger, “Maybe he will make Alayne smile again.”

 

She took little Robin’s hand and pressed her lips to the back of it. 

 

“And if he does not,” Robin continued, “Then we will see if Crows can fly!”


	2. Wear it Like Armor

The honour of the Knights of the Vale was legendary. Not just from the actual legends or songs, but from his childhood. From his Father. 

 

The knights did not seem so honourable as they escorted him. _I am a traitor to them_ , he corrected. _It is I who lack honor, not they._

 

He was a traitor twice over in the eyes of many in the realm. _A deserter of the Night’s Watch and a Northern Rebel._ He wondered how many of them would have acted differently, if it was their brother who took up arms against the boy who’d killed their father, against the boy who held their sisters hostage, against the family that crippled their brother.

 

This is where Father met Robert. Where Father learned how to fight and become a man. 

 

It was an unforgiving country, as cruel as the North in its own way, all jagged hills and errant branches. Ghost strayed from the path, but not far. Even he would have a hard time finding Jon out here. The cold numbed the senses.

 

The climb was tough, even on his battle-hardened muscles and he was relieved when he reached the top, though the way the guards crowded around him meant he knew he shouldn’t be. 

 

“Come with us _Lord Snow_ ,” one sneered. He hadn’t realized, living in the North, how much information gets passed from town to town. How else would a nickname given to him by Thorne at Castle Black find its way to the lips of a pampered knight so high up here. 

 

He followed them wordlessly. He wouldn’t do anything, give them any cause to deter him from finding her. 

 

He walked into the great room and found a boy, younger than Bran in the Lord’s chair, a beautiful brunette at his side, his hand holding hers in her lap. 

 

“Well met Cousin,” the boy said. _Lysa’s boy_ , Jon thought. He’d only met the mother once, but he saw the touch of madness he’d seen in her sitting before him now. _You are no cousin to me_ , Jon thought almost petulantly. The sister of the woman who hated me. _He is the son of your father’s greatest mentor_ , another voice reminded him, _And he is the only one who can help you find Sansa_. 

 

“My Lord,” Jon said, remembering his courtesies. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

 

“I have not given it yet,” the little boy yelled, and he saw the girl, the beautiful girl that Jon could swear he’d seen somewhere before, pat his hand comfortingly.

 

 _Guest rights,_ Jon thought, realising he had not been given bread and salt. _Who knew there were still places in these Seven Kingdoms where such things still hold sway?_

 

“Of course,” he says, “I only meant your kind escort up to your fair castle,” he finished, thought it was more a fortress than anything else. 

 

He almost regretted that it was only Ghost at his side, who was seated but alert. _Too alert_ , Jon realised, watching the way the direwolf’s nose was lifted in the air as though smelling something familiar. _What is it, boy?_

 

“You deserted the Night’s Watch,” Robin said. 

 

“Aye, my lord, with support from Lord Commander Mormont. My brother took arms against the pretender, Joffrey Baratheon and I joined him in the fight,” Jon said. Many had tried to find regret in these actions before, all had failed. _Why should your honour be more important than their lives, Jon Snow?_ Maestor Aemon had asked him. 

 

“You committed treason!,” Robin said. He’d clearly rehearsed the accusations against him and Jon had tampered with his script. 

 

“I defended my family, I will _always_ defend my family, and that my lord, is why I’m here,” Jon said, trying to redirect. 

 

“YOU ARE HERE TO FLY IF I SAY SO!,” Robin cried and Jon saw the girl beside him whisper something in his ear. Jon’s eyes wandered to a wide hole in the floor, granting the hall a chilly breeze. The little boy stopped shaking and turned to him, “Alayne is right. Why are you here?”

 

Jon tried to meet Alayne’s eye in thanks, but she averted his gaze, looking down at her lap where she picked at a most likely non-existent errant thread. _I knew a little girl who found fault in herself where there was none. A perfectionist at three._

 

This jolts him back into his purpose.

 

“My Lord, I have come to seek your help. I promised Robb Stark, your cousin, to find his siblings and help them take their home back. I have found two,” he said,“Arya,” and out of the corner of his eye he saw the girls fist clench. _Odd._ “And Rickon. I have come here to find Sansa Stark, the flower of the North, to restore her to her home, which I and the remaining Stark forces will win back for her.”

 

“My cousin Robb was a traitor, Mother said so,” Robin said to him, almost like he was confiding in him. 

 

“Your cousin Robb sought to avenge his father, sought to avenge _your_ father,” Alayne countered quietly, though seated up beside the young lord, looking like a queen, she drew the attention of all those present, “Don’t you remember what your mother said, sweetling? That it was the Lannister’s who poisoned him.”

 

Robin sighed and flitted his hand towards some guards who pulled a large chain, closing the hole in the floor. _So I will not fly today. Thank you, Alayne._

 

 

 

 

“I don’t know where Sansa is,” Robin said to him, “But she is my cousin, the Knights of the Vale will help you find her. Until then, you are under my protection.”

 

It was Alayne who remembered her courtesies. With the simplest gesture, bread and salt were presented before him. _I saw another woman give commands like that._

 

Jon dipped the bread in the salt and ate to light applause. He looked up to thank Alayne again with his eyes, but she was already gone, as though she hadn’t been there at all. 

 

***

 

It had taken a full hour to stop shaking. An hour and a hot bath, in which the other girl wept against her knees thinking of a brunette girl with dirty knees, and a little boy with a carefree laugh. 

 

Alayne had never met Jon Snow, and yet the battle-hardened man she’d seen today was not what she remembered. The name conjured a brooding image of a slim youth with shoulder length curly black hair, who was always the first to make the brunette girl smile, whose company Robb had always kept. _He was a stranger to Sansa just as he is to Alayne. A stranger, but her brother too._

 

She dressed herself in a muted silver gown, so muted it could almost be mistaken for pale grey. She covered her eyes in a silver mask of feathers. Tonight Alayne was a dove. 

 

She exited her chambers into the crowded hall. There was a mask tonight at Robin’s request. She watched as the ladies of the Vale simpered behind their masks, giggling to the pleasure the lords. _Children_ , Alayne thought pityingly. Enviously.

 

“Ah Lady Alayne,” Lord Royce said as he bowed over her hand. “A beautiful dove.”

 

 _And this my cage_ , Alayne thought errantly but smiled and curtsied before him. “You are too kind, my Lord. Florian the Fool?,” she asked, guessing at his costume. 

 

“Littlefinger - my apologies, Lord Baelish, taught you well, were you given a classic education,” Royce asks her as though simply curious. Alayne knew better. He was always trying to catch Father in a lie.

 

“He is a most dutiful, Father, my lord,” she said, because that could mean anything. Most importantly it could mean nothing.

 

“As I’ve seen,” Lord Royce said, but left it at that. “Now have you met Harold Hardyng?”

 

 _Harry the Heir. You make my sweet-Robin so very nervous._ As Alayne studied the youth in front of her, she saw Robin had good reason to be afraid. _This is an heir the people will love on sight_ , she thought, with his impressive stature and sandy blonde hair. The only trouble it seemed, was that he _knew_ it, she realised as he sauntered over to her. 

 

“Alayne,” he said, forgoing the courtesy title most of the nobles and all of the servants had been using for her since the death of Lysa Arryn. 

 

“Lord Harold,” she said, sweeping into an elegant curtsy. 

 

“Must’ve been one of his prettiest whores that Littlefinger got you off of,” Harry said, looking her up and down lasciviously. 

 

She was saved from a response when a man appeared at their side, with a wolf mask over his face. 

 

“Lady Alayne, please excuse the interruption,” he said, though his voice betrayed no remorse, “Might I have the next dance?”

 

No sooner had she nodded her assent than she was being lead gently away, into the arms of the wolf himself. 

 

***

 

 _A noble bastard, like me_ , Jon thought as he lead Alayne in a dance. She defied the very reputation of a bastard, who were supposed to be lascivious and wanton. She was covered up to her neck and her eyes were downcast as he lead her about the floor. Her feet were light though, and her hands soft. _So soft and small in mine._

 

“Pay him no mind,” Jon said quietly, “I was raised with boys like him. They don’t mean what they say.”

 

“I thought Starks notoriously _do_ mean what they say,” she countered, and there was something to it, the haughtiness perhaps that he thought he recognized. 

 

He laughed, “I fear they do have that reputation. But I did not mean my brothers, my half-brothers. I was raised with many noble boys, summer children who could be fooled into believing that the sins of the parents were the fault of the children.”

 

“But not you,” Alayne said, as he turned her delicately. He caught a whiff of something, _lemons_?, “You were born with honour in your bones.”

 

“And how would you know a thing like that?,” he challenged her. Something about this girl raised his hackles even as it drew him to her.

 

“There are stories that men do not tell in front of ladies,” she said, “But I am not a lady.” 

 

_Liar._

 

“You are to me,” he said instead. The girl carried herself like a Queen, as though elegance was in her very bones as though courtesy was her arm- “Tell me, _Alayne_ , how long have you been in the Vale?,” he asked, his heart beating wildly. 

 

“Six months,” she replied evenly. 

 

“And where were you before?,” he asked. 

 

“I’ve lived in many places,” she answered evasively. 

 

_Like King’s Landing, like Winterfell? Could it be?_

 

“With your Father?,” he asked her. 

 

“Sometimes,” she allowed.

 

She was better at this than him. That much was clear. But then again she _would_ be. He’d survived battle, she’d survived court. 

 

“And where is your Father now?,” he asked her.

 

“On the King’s business, most likely,” Alayne said.

 

He looked at her now. Really looked at her. She was grown now, with a woman’s body, but he supposed that was to be expected. She was every bit as lovely as her childhood prettiness had promised she’d be. 

 

Her hair was different and he found himself wondering how much else had changed. The girl he knew had been more Southern than any of her siblings, but proud of her heritage, proud of her family. _Ned Stark’s first daughter, the flower of the North, the joy of Winterfell._

 

“And I thought Starks always tell the truth,” he nearly growled at her, goading her, for he was tired of this game. 

 

“We d-,” she started but stopped herself. 

 

She looked up in fear, and it was the first time their eyes had met. Hers were wide and blue, capable of drowning any man. She was out of his arms in the same moment, fleeing the hall, but it didn’t change what he knew. It didn’t change what he’d seen.

 

 _Tully eyes_ , he thought.


	3. By Listening to You

Alayne lay in bed, tossing and turning. Sleep was something she was accustomed to living without, but this nervous, erratic beating of her heart was something she had not had since the days leading up to her father's execution. It felt so foreign and unwelcome that it took her a while to name it. _Hope._

 

When it became clear that she would not be able to quell it, she slipped on her night slippers and robe and unbarred her door. Another girl might have had a guard posted outside, but no one cared for a Bastard girl's honor. 

 

She tiptoed down the corridor, careful to avoid the places in the castle where she knew guards would be on duty. She'd arranged Jon's lodgings herself, so she knew where he would be staying. She forced herself to stay calm, to breathe deeply and then she knocked twice, low and purposeful, then three times quick. _Robb's old knock,_ the other girl whispered in her mind. 

 

Barely a moment after she'd finished the third knock the door opened and she was pulled inside. He closed the door behind them and they stood, a few feet apart. He was changed, much-changed, but so similar still. He would never have been able to disguise himself like she had. He was a Stark through and through. 

 

His wide, dark grey eyes appraised her, and his hand clenched at his side. He looked steady, alert, but so afraid of frightening her that he stood immobile. 

 

She realized then that he would stand there forever, wait forever for her. At that moment she leapt forward into his arms. They came around her immediately, catching her to him and holding her just as tightly as she held him. _Home_ , she thought. _Home, home, home, home_ , the other girl screamed inside of her. 

 

It was she that let go first, and only because his faithful direwolf Ghost, who never made a sound as a pup was whimpering at her side. She thought of Lady, the sweet direwolf lost so long ago and she leaned down, though she needn't given his size, and she pet his face. There were not many in these Seven Kingdoms that would have considered a direwolf a comfort, but she was one of them and she held onto him just as tightly as she had his master.

 

"I miss her too, boy," she said quietly, and Ghost laid his head on her shoulder, letting out a warm hum against her.

 

"Sansa-," Jon started but she cut him off.

 

"Alayne," she corrected, standing up and looking him in the eyes. "Alayne Stone. Lord Baelish's natural born daughter."

 

He sighed, as though she were so very ridiculous. As though she hadn’t been wearing a mask since the moment she left Winterfell, as though he knew what it was like to suffer what she’d suffered.

 

 "I understand it out there but in he-," he started.

 

"I'm Alayne always," she said, "I'm Alayne in my heart, as I must be in yours. It's the only way to survive here." 

 

"But I don't want us to survive here, I want us to go _home_ ," he said.

 

“If I disappear now, the entire Vale will be out looking for me come morning. Lord Baelish rules here in everything but name. We have to be smart about this,” she said, her mind already imaging different scenarios. 

 

They could fake her death, or she could escape on a hunting party. They could plan her a marriage, though her Lord Father would need to approve of it and Baelish would never set her free. _I am a caged bird, singing sweetly for my captors._

 

 _“_ I will kill Littlefinger if he dares stop us,” Jon vows, “I will kill little Lord Robin, I will kill Harry _fucking_ Hardyng,” he says and he takes her cheeks in his hands, “I will kill anyone who tries to keep you from your home, from your family, from _me_.”

 

She rolls her eyes and grins. It was simply so _Jon_ , and it was a relief to her that she knew that. That she knew him, even if she hadn’t thought so, “You can’t kill everyone in the Vale, Jon.”

 

“Well I’ll leave some for Ghost, it’s only fair…,” he said with a small smile that looked foreign but not unwelcome on his face. Their eyes met and his darkened as his face turned serious again, “We’ll protect you. I promise.”

 

 _No one can protect me_ , she thought. Sansa thought her father could protect her, but he’d lost his head. She’d thought the Tyrell’s could protect her, but the Lannister’s had stolen her. She’d thought Littlefinger could, but it turns out it was he she needed protection from. _Don’t hide from me, daughter._

 

She wanted to tell him. Tell him he was a Northern fool. That she would not be a foolish girl anymore. That she would learn, that she _had_ learned. But he stood there looking so much like home it took her breath away and his hands were so gentle on her face. 

 

She grabbed his wrists, holding him to her.

 

“If that’s what you want. If you want to protect me, then while we are here I’m Alayne,” she said, “Promise me, Jon. I’m Alayne.”

 

“I’m still in the middle of the last promise I made to a Stark,” he said with a sigh. 

 

“Then it is a good thing I’m a Stone,” she countered, raising a challenging eyebrow at him. 

 

“Aye, aye it is, Alayne,” he said in defeat. 

 

She slipped from his chambers, determined to get back to hers before the guards switched. It would not do well for word to get back to her Father that she’d been in the chambers of a young man. 

 

For once, sleep came easy that evening and when she dreamed, she dreamed of a Weirwood tree, direwolves, and home, and more than anything she dreamed of the man who wanted to return her to them. 

 

***

 

_“You promised,” Sansa said, clutching his arm with more strength than a dying girl should be able to muster. “You promised.”_

 

_“I’m sorry, Sansa,” he cried, trying desperately to stop the blood that seeped from her wounds, “I’m so sorry.”_

 

_“I’m Alayne,” she said, the dagger at her throat. There was someone behind her holding it. He didn’t have a face but Jon knew. Littlefinger. “Who else would I be?”_

 

_“Farewell Snow,” the man said, and suddenly Sansa was gone and it was only the two of them and that is when the blade pierced his heart._

 

Jon woke up with Ghost standing over him, his red eyes looking into Jon’s grey ones as though he knew, as though he’d seen the dream too. 

 

He was sweating again, and he rose from bed, shaking the memory from his mind. He called for a bath, realising then that he was once again in civilised society and he had been too long without one. 

 

Once he’d dressed he made his way into the Great Hall. Now that he’d _found_ Sansa, he didn’t really want to waste time pretending to look for her, but he knew that was part of the ruse. 

 

A part of him wanted to grab her and throw her over his shoulder. _Let the entire Vale come after us_ he thought. He had been too long a soldier though, and Sansa counselled caution. Politics. _No doubt Littlefinger’s influence_. 

 

He’d been restless until she’d come into his room and once she’d gotten there it was like regaining a piece of home he hadn’t realised he’d lost. Or more like he hadn’t realised he’d had in the first place. 

 

His relief at finding Rickon and Arya had been instantaneous. They were the wildest of the Stark siblings, they always had been. 

 

Little Rickon had been a wanderer for much of his young life and a prisoner for the rest of it. Jon had left him in Sam and Gilly’s care at the Wall, relying on them to teach him like they would Little Sam. Arya had been left with her Great-Uncle the Blackfish. The old warrior had been reluctant _What do I know about raising a teenage girl?_ He’d asked Jon when he’d asked. Then he’d met Arya and realised they’d do just fine together. Bran was on his own mission. Something dangerous and ancient and important. Jon would join him as soon as he could, or so he thought. 

 

But then Sansa had come in to his chambers, all wide Tully eyes and Stark determination, full of refinement and terror in equal measure. 

 

 _What will we do?_ He wondered.

 

For so long it had just been his plan. His plan and his promise. Rickon and Arya had had no say in where they were left. He was their older brother, and they had listened to him without question. But _Sansa_. Sansa the people pleaser. Sansa the Lady. Sansa the delicate flower. Sansa thought that she’d directed him with the arch of her eyebrow, the _challenge_ , the promise she’d pulled from him, but she hadn’t. It was the look on her face the moment before she leapt into his arms. That look had changed him irrevocably, he had lost all of his power in that moment, and everything, everything that he was, everything that he’d do, was in service to her.

 

He came into the Great Room to find some of the Lords seated around the table eating breakfast. Sans-Alayne was sitting at little Lord Robin’s side, seemingly trying to convince him to eat. 

 

“Jon!,” the little boy cried when he saw him. _As mercurial as his mother,_ Jon thought, who he’d seen shift between almost girlish laughter and shrill anger when he was a child. _Yesterday he would have made me fly and today I am his honoured guest. Do I have you to thank for that Alayne?_ , he wondered, and from the small smile she gave him he knew his answer.

 

“Good morning My Lord,” he said, more jovial than he felt, “And to you, Lady Alayne,” he said, fighting the desire to add an extra emphasis to it. 

 

“Good morning, Jon,” she said. 

 

Jon pulled up the chair next to her and he saw her straighten up out of the corner of his eye. _She thinks I am as wild as Ghost. The girl is no fool._

 

Jon accepted bread, cheese and a bit of bacon from a servant. _Better food than the wall at least, or an army camp._

 

He was nearly finished when a maester hurried in and gave Robin a small scroll. The little boy handed it immediately to Alayne and Jon stopped eating, not being able to keep from surveying her as she read. _Dark wings, dark words._

 

She pasted a brilliant, dazzling smile on her face, that hid how white her cheeks had gone, but nothing could hide the way the hand in her lap clenched into a fist. 

 

“Oh what wonderful news, Lord Robin! My Lord Father will be coming to see us once again at long last,” she said, and Jon noticed that the tenor of her voice had raised, making her sound like the little girl he’d once known. 

 

“Uncle Petyr’s coming!,” Robin exclaimed, clapping wildly until most of those assembled seemingly begrudgingly joined him. 

 

In the applause, Alayne turned to Jon and said, “Have you ever had the pleasure of meeting my father?,” she asked him almost conversationally. 

 

_You promised. You promised. I’m Alayne, who else would I be?_

 

“Not yet,” he said, nearly feeling the steel of the blade, “But believe me when I say I cannot wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the support on this one! It makes me nervous to update, I don't want to let you down. Hope you enjoy! xo


	4. Don't Hide from Me

The next few days were a flurry of preparations. Alayne was the unofficial Lady of the Eerie, and so her days were spent with the Maester going over the accounts, with the cooks preparing the feast for her Lord Father’s return, and at Sweet Robin’s side as he played at Lord.

 

Jon had come there with a job to do, so she’d hardly seen him, as he made preparations with Lord Royce and the Knights of the Vale. Despite all of his protestations.

 

_“This is madness,” he said, nearly knocking over his cup of ale as he stood up in anger._

 

_“This is strategy,” she corrected, hardly looking up from the letter she was writing._

 

_“I am planning a search party for someone who is sitting right in front of me,” he said, nearly growling at her as he closed the distance between them. He pulled her up and there was something simmering in his dark grey eyes as he held her hands to his chest, “Someone so close I can touch her.”_

 

_“You forget yourself, Jon Snow,” she said, wrenching her hands free. Her pulse had quickened as he’d held her gently, betraying the strength she knew bubbled inside him. “Sansa is lost.”_

 

_“Perhaps I will take Alayne instead, then,” he said._

 

_“My Lord Father will never allow it,” she said, knowing Baelish would never part with her. Don’t hide from me, he said._

 

_“I do not intend to ask his permission,” Jon said but he had calmed, and taken his seat once again._

 

_“Then you will die,” she said. “You will die and I will be all alone again. Is that what you wish for me?,” she asked him, her anger replacing his own._

 

_“You think he could best me?,” he asks her with a small cocky grin that causes her stomach to twist. “Have you not heard the rumours of the White Wolf? Have they not made their way to the girl who calls herself Bastard?”_

 

_The stories had made their way to her. She remembered when Jon had stormed Harrenhal. Sansa still had scars on her shoulder from that victory, scars that Alayne couldn’t explain._

 

_“They’ve made their way,” she said quietly, and Jon looks over at her, the cocky smile gone, a look of fear in its place. “And while you were storming your castles and earning your glory I was watching. Watching and listening. I witnessed two of his murders, took part in one of his cover ups. I know the way his mind works. While you are pushing one piece forward or another he is ten steps ahead, with your defeat already in his sights. You think Littlefinger would be fool enough to accept a challenge? To meet you in open combat? You would sooner find your end in a posset placed in your bath or in a betrayal on the field of battle.”_

 

_“You’re right,” he said. He was the first person to say that to her since Lord Tyrion, the only man who’d ever encouraged her mind. “There will be no peace for us while Littlefinger lives.”_

 

_“Jon…,” she said warily, though a tremor of excitement pulsed in her veins._

 

 _“Lady Alayne_ ,” _he said and bowed to her before leaving her on her own to her letters._

 

This was the first time she’d seen him today, and she nearly laughed at what the servants had done to him. He was freshly bathed, his hair tied half back. He no longer wore his armour, but a fresh black doublet that appeared to be cut from the same cloth as her gown. He looked handsome and noble, and she wondered what the Lords of the Vale thought when they saw him bow in front of sweet, sickly, little Robin. _This is what a Lord should be_ , she thought, _Too bad he is only a bastard like me._

 

 _“Alayne_ ,” he said, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. His moustache tickled her skin, and this allowed her to ignore the burning she felt where his lips had touched. _Perhaps all Bastards are wanton, just as they say._

 

She nodded her head to him, placing her trembling hand back in her lap and covering it with her other. 

 

A trumpet sounded and one of the Knights, some minor Royce, shouted, “May I present Petyr Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Protector of the Vale.”

 

“Uncle Petyr!,” Robin said, jumping out of his seat and rushing to greet the slender man who’d entered the hall. 

 

Her father swung Robin around and set him down. His eyes scanned the room, hovering briefly over Jon and her heart seized, but his appraising eyes settled on her. She jutted her chin out, straightening her back. _Don’t hide from me._

 

“Daughter,” he said to her, making an elegant sweep of his arms, “Will you not greet me?”

 

***

 

 _I will gut you where you stand_ , Jon thought as Alayne rose slowly. 

 

It did not take Jon long to take the measure of Littlefinger. Pompous, intelligent, and decidedly creepy. The sheer joy in Little Robin’s voice told Jon what Alayne had been trying to tell him since they’d met, _Tread carefully_. He was the ruler in all but name here, and had the real ruler in the palm of his hand. 

 

Jon watched as Alayne walked elegantly over to her Father. He wondered if the others could see the way her feel slightly dragged as she did. _Probably not_ , he thought, _Most are probably following the sway of her hips, the creamy column of her neck._ Not that he noticed such things. 

 

“Father,” Alayne said kindly, as though there were not enough words in the world to explain the joy at seeing her father. 

 

“Daughter,” Littlefinger repeated again, but he said it quietly, and to Jon’s ears it sounded like the sort of thing Littlefinger had repeated to himself again and again in his time away.

 

Littlefinger leaned in and kissed her on the lips, and when he pulled away Alayne was no longer there but Sansa. _Father never kissed her like that. Always on the forehead, or the cheek. A few times even on her hand, playing the loyal knight to her noble Lady._

 

Jon didn’t think. Not about the knights populating the hall, nor the fact that Ghost and Long Claw were in his chambers. All he thought of was that kiss, that drag of her feet, and he moved forward, intent on pulling Littlefinger’s very heart from his chest. 

 

 _Damn her_ , he thought as S-Alayne now, turned to him and smiled lightly, ignoring the destruction in his eyes. 

 

“Lord Father, allow me to introduce Jon Snow,” she said as though they were nothing but guests at the same feast, as though she did not stand between the two men in the world that were most likely to kill for her. _She’s better at this than me_.

 

Littlefinger’s smarmy gaze peeled from his daughter, not before dipping below her neck Jon noticed, and fell to him, a small smile resting on his simpering little face. 

 

“Jon…Snow,” he said, “The Bastard of Winterfell…”

 

_Wear it like armor, wear it like armor._

 

“So you’ve heard of me,” Jon said gamely, “That will make things _so_ much easier.”

 

“Oh yes, we’ve all heard tales of you,” Littlefinger said and there was victory in his eyes. “I remember when you stormed Harrenhall. _My_ castle. To be sure it was not mine at the time but even still. Shall I bill you for the damage?,” he asked and a few around him chuckled. Jon grimaced in an attempt to pass it for a smile, but even that died on his lips when Littlefinger turned back to him. “I still remember when news reached King’s Landing of your _great victory_. King Joffrey was so very impressed, he gave your _sister_ Sansa,” Jon forced himself not to look to Alayne, “Quite the prize for that. I believe it was Ser Meryn that day, so many of the others used the flats of their swords but Ser Meryn…that was not his way…,” he said and the monster had the audacity to smile at him. 

 

Jon’s hand clenched at his sideband he knew his face must have a feral quality to it now. He felt a growl, deep in his chest, but it could just as easily have come from Ghost locked away in his chambers. 

 

 _They’ve made their way_ , she had said only the day before. He had been teasing her, bragging about his victories while it was she who had suffered for them. He felt ill, down in his bones and Littlefinger _knew_ it.

 

“There are many who have sought to hurt Sansa, to control her, there are rumours that even _you_ sought to…help her at one point,” Jon said, with a smirk to match Littlefinger’s, “Not that all rumours in these Seven Kingdoms can be believed. But I’ll let you in a little secret Lord Baelish…here’s something you _can_ believe,” Jon leaned forward as if taking him into his confidence, “Anyone, be it a King, _Lord_ or knight who seeks to keep my sister from me, or wishes her ill, will meet their end by my sword.”

 

“Ah yes, the man who passes the sentence must swing the sword. Your father lived by those words, did he not? He loved Sansa too, loved her enough to lie, he  gave up his honour to protect her. What will you give up, Jon Snow? Your honour? Your life?”

 

“Everything.”

 

***

 

“He knows,” Lord Baelish said as the last servant exited the room. 

 

Alayne looked up from the roasted quail in front of her. “Who knows what, Father?”

 

The feast would be tomorrow. Tonight, Lord Baelish had ordered a private dinner for the two of them, citing a need to discuss some things with his daughter. Robin had been with them earlier but he’d been put to bed, with a faithful dose of Milk of the Poppy to ensure that he would not be barging into Alayne’s room that evening due to a nightmare. 

 

“Do you imagine I am as foolish as these Knights of the Vale?,” he asked her calmly. _Father is always most terrifying when he’s calm_ , she reminded herself, _Do not give in._

 

 _“_ He knows nothing,” she says, matching the levelled tenor of his voice. “He is in pursuit of his half-sister Sansa, a foolish pursuit, the girl is lost.”

 

“Is she now?,” he asks her, rising from the seat opposing hers. He walks over to her slowly and she fights the urge to lower her eyes. She keeps them, Tully blue, on him as he makes his way towards her. _Do not hide from me_. He tucks a finger under her chin, “If she is lost, then who are you?”

 

She gives him a bright smile, a fingernail digging into her thigh through her dress to keep herself steady, “I am Alayne, Father, who else would I be?”

 

He keeps his eyes on her, appraising her. She lowers her eyelids slightly, looking up at him through lowered lashes and his thumb joins his finger, holding her chin in between them. His eyes trail down to her lips which are no longer smiling, the bottom one caught between her teeth. 

 

“I heard you danced with this Jon Snow, Alayne,” he said, his voice gruff, “Is it true?”

 

“Is that what this is about, _Father_?,” she asked as though it were all ridiculous, all the while reminding him of the parts they were playing. “He only sought to thank me, he felt I’d intervened on his behalf with our Sweet Robin, he saw nothing familiar in me.”

 

“And how could he?,” he asked, stepping back as though it were all a game, “As he has never had the pleasure of meeting you, Daughter.”

 

“Quite so,” she demurred, her eyes falling to her lap in surrender. 

 

Satisfied he sits back down at the other end of the table, slicing into his supper. 

 

“It is good to see you again, Daughter,” he said as he washed the quail down with a sip of Arbor red. “It has been far too long, I’ve missed you.”

 

“As I’ve missed you, Father,” she said, taking a small sip of her own. She rarely drank when he was not around, but he liked to see her with a goblet in her hand. And it helped her sleep, she would need it, “Tell me all the adventures you’ve had…”

 

***

 

Jon lay in bed in his chambers, trying to recreate the path out of the castle. He’d been taking notes each day, how many guards were on duty, where they were positioned, when their shifts changed. 

 

He had learned at a young age how to move like a bastard. His was not the pompous swagger of the young lords here, he made himself as unobtrusive as possible. It allowed him to hear better. 

 

It was, after all, how he’d learned Lord Royce hated Littlefinger, feared the madness within Lord Robin, how he was frustrated with Harry the Heir. It was how he’d learned that some here had wished to join Robb’s cause, many who remembered Ned Stark from his time here, many who would risk it all for the Stark name even now. _They are not Northerners, but they are loyal like them. High as Honor indeed._

 

He thought that if he could get Lord Royce alone, he might be able to galvanise enough of the Vale’s bannermen to his cause. But that would take time, and as he’d watched the way Littlefinger had taken in Sansa’s form, the greedy, possessive way he looked at her, Jon knew they did not have time. 

 

All of a sudden Ghost started scratching at the door, a low deep growl escaping from him. Direwolves were not pets, how many had told him that? But Ghost was different, he never made a sound. Not unless he was in danger. 

 

 _That’s not true_ , Jon thought, remembering when Ghost and his siblings, only pups, had howled when Bran had been injured. How Ghost had whimpered when Grey Wind died. When Robb died. _Sansa_. 

 

Jon went to the door to unlatch it and Ghost sprinted out. Jon went to grab Longclaw and that is when he heard him. 

 

“I’ve known two Direwolves, both gone,” he heard Littlefinger say. 

 

Jon went out of his room, Longclaw at his side, ready to strike. He went down the corridor where he heard the voices and saw Littlefinger’s back to him, Ghost planted in front of a door, teeth bared. 

 

“She’s Stark no longer,” Littlefinger said, supposedly to Ghost though there was a change in his tenor, in his volume that made Jon think he might know he was there. “There’s nothing left to save.”

 

_Until her last breath there will always be something to save._

 

He saw Littlefinger step forward, _Do it_ , Jon begged internally, _Give him a reason. Give me one._

 

It was dark, late, the castle was asleep. Who would know? How many in here wanted this man dead anyway?

 

Ghost growled at him, his fangs snapping and Littlefinger, whom everyone said was clever, knew defeat when he saw it and backed away. 

 

“ _Lord Snow_ ,” he said, bowing in mock obsequience to the dire wolf, before turning the corner. 

 

Ghost watched him go and then turned when the door behind him opened. Jon went back around the corner, only letting his head poke around it. 

 

A slim figure appeared in the hallway, bending down to where Ghost had laid down. 

 

“Thank you, boy,” Sansa said, petting Ghosts head. “Come, I don’t think Jon will mind,” she said, and from the volume of her voice, Jon knew that she too knew he was watching. 

 

Ghost rose and followed her into room. Jon didn’t mind at all. 

 

_Keep her safe, boy. Safe from him._


	5. What is my last name?

It had been a week, a full week with her Lord Father there. Every night Ghost came to her chambers, he her only visitor. She dined with her Father at night and if he was vexed by this he said nothing, he only sat quietly, studying her like she had failed already. 

 

She took care to give him nothing, nothing to reproach her for. She did not speak to Jon, who was out most days _hunting_. The knights of the Vale had taken to calling it a Wolf Hunt, which they thought awfully clever but it made her stomach twist. _Give me my life back and I will show them what it is to hunt a wolf._

 

Though she had to hand it to Jon. No longer did he need to seek her or Robin out, he sat with the men, drinking and laughing. The latter of which had never seemed to come naturally to him. They called him the White Wolf, Commander Snow, and when they called him Bastard it was with a smile on their faces. _The Bastard bests me yet again,_ they’d say as they’d wipe the blood from their lips, clasping his hand.

 

It was beginning to make her feel like Sansa Stark again. Watching from the outside as the men bonded. She spoke only when asked a specific question, and then in measured tones, while the men guffawed only a couple tables away. _Arya would have joined them_ , she thought one evening as they took up a song, a Northern one. Her Father had patted her hand when he’d heard her humming along and that had been the end of that. 

 

That evening there was dancing and she was wearing a gown given to her by her Father. It was powder blue, _the colour of your eyes, Daughter_ , and more low cut than the gowns that she made for herself. It had drawn the attention of a few of the men and she carried herself nobly. _A lady playing a bastard playing a lady,_ she twirled around in her head as the men spun her on the floor. 

 

“Lady Alayne,” a grave voice said as one song ended and another begun. 

 

“Jon Snow,” she said demurely, with a slight bow of her head. After all he was only a bastard like her, she needn’t curtsey. 

 

“I’d be honoured if?-“ he says. _Oh Jon, don’t you remember how I taught you and Robb to ask a lady to dance?,_ the other girl chastised.

 

Alayne only smiled and raised an eyebrow, “If?,” she repeated. 

 

His grey eyes bore into hers. _Robb always liked to be teased, Jon never did_. 

 

“If you would accompany me in a dance,” he said evenly though, the picture of courtesy. 

 

“Oh, I’d be delighted,” she said, offering him her hand and nearly gasping with how quickly he grabbed it, pulling her to him. 

 

He was holding her closely, too closely and though her eyes were on the floor she felt his on her face. 

 

“Are you mad?,” she asked him as he began to lead her, “Stop looking at me like that.”

 

“Like what, _Alayne?_ ” he asked her, spinning her gently once again. 

 

 _Like you mean to devour me_ , she thought, but she said, “Like you are going to steal me away.”

 

“That is how every man has looked at you tonight,” Jon said in her ear, “Why would I be any different?”

 

“You know why,” she said through gritted teeth. 

 

He chuckled in her ear and it sent a chill down her spine. “Oh but they don’t. To them, we are just two noble bastards. They _expect_ this of us, Alayne. I dare say it would be stranger if I _didn’t_ look at you this way. How is a lecherous beast meant to look at the most beautiful woman in the castle?”

 

 _He’s better at this than me_ , she thought. She had never been so close to a man, and he did not hold her like a brother ought to. Harry had held her tightly, but clumsily. Lord Royce had held her at a careful distance, his papery hands feather light on hers. Lord Robin had stepped on her toes, and her Father had turned her forcefully, molding her to his own desires. But Jon, he held her like he couldn’t _not_ hold her, like he was holding his very life in his hands, and all the while he was looking at her like _that_. 

 

“If you were smart, you wouldn’t look at all,” she said primly, fighting to keep her voice steady.

 

“Oh but I’m a Northern fool,” he said and she looked up, up into his grey eyes, the grey eyes that should be cool but were alit with fire. 

 

“Then what good are you to _Sansa?_ ,” she asked and just like that the fire died. 

 

It felt cold without it and when she shivered she felt the steady pressure of his hand pressing into her back. 

 

She saw her Father crossing to them. _Go, now,_ she urged with her eyes. 

 

“Thank you for your counsel, Lady Alayne,” Jon said, now the perfect gentleman. He took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to the back of it. 

 

When he rose, her Lord Father was standing in front of them. 

 

“Jon, I see you have become acquainted with my daughter,” he said, placing a hand around her waist and pulling her to his side. If she was not mistaken, she saw Jon’s jaw clench. “She’s quite a girl, is she not?”

 

“Quite a girl, indeed,” Jon agreed. “And so welcoming. Why…it almost feels as though I’ve known her for years.”

 

_You Northern Fool._

 

_***_

 

It was enough to make him think that she would be better off without him. The way he’d held her, the way he’d spoken to her. _Gods the way I looked at her_ , Jon thought as he paced around his chambers. 

 

She was so much better at the game than him, and she’d been avoiding him the whole week. They’d never been close, but she’d never _ignored_ him. No more than she had anyone else anyway, and far less than she had Arya. It felt like the sun had been stolen from him, and as he urged his horse on day after day, looking for the sister he knew he’d never find, he shivered for the first time in years.

 

Though the mission was futile, the days were not. He spent them learning the men, letting them learn him. He knew their names, their families, their loyalties. He knew which ones remained loyal to the Arryn name and those who would see another family rise. 

 

He left Ghost at the castle when he was gone, knowing the wolf could now sense even the slightest spike in Sansa’s pulse. 

 

It had become harder and harder to think of her as Alayne. Not because they were spending so much time together, or because she particularly reminded him of the girl who had road South with dreams in her mind and songs on her lips. It was difficult because thinking of her as Alayne meant she wasn’t his sister. Not even his half-sister. 

 

She’d cautioned him, counselled him, and he’d ignored her. He told himself that it was only his frustration with the ruse, but he knew himself to be a liar. 

 

Without thinking he went through the halls, nodding at one guard and then another, until he found himself in front of her chambers. He knocked gently twice and quickly three times. 

 

The door open and a _furious_ girl stood in front of him, wrapping her robe around her slender body. 

 

“What is the _matter_ with you?,” she asked, dragging him inside. Ghost looked up briefly from his spot on the bed and then let his head fall back down, certain that she was safe from harm at the very least. “Was it not enough to _taunt_ my Father this evening now you must what-“

 

“Don’t call him that,” Jon growled at her, “Not here, not to _me_.”

 

“Who _better_?,” she snarled back, “Who else needs _reminding_?”

 

He grabbed her, “You are Sansa Stark,” he said, holding her cheeks, “Daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark. Younger sister to Robb, older sister to Arya, Bran and Rickon. You had a direwolf named Lady, and you loved to sew and sing and eat lemon cakes. You pray to the Old Gods and you are _true born and noble_. _The flower of the North._ ”

 

“I’m a bastard,” she said, though tears were falling from her eyes. “Daughter of Lord Petyr Baelish. A bastard, you promised, you promised.”

 

***

 

 _I am a bastard, truly I must be. Wanton and without virtue_ , she thought to herself as she clutched Jon’s doublet in her hands. 

 

She knew he desired her. Years at court had taught her when a man desired her and when he didn’t, and Jon, for all his Northern honour, for all the things his father had taught him, desired her.

 

“Is that what you want?,” he asked her, his hands still holding her face, his grey eyes scorching into hers. “Is that all you want to be to me?”

 

“J-,” she started but she never got the chance to finish. 

 

For at that moment the door swung open and her Lord Father stood there, two guards behind him. 

 

“ _What_ is the meaning of this?,” he asked them, but his eyes were only on Jon. “I give you shelter, though you are a traitor, we give you men, though you have no claim, I would have been your ally and yet you seek to defile my _daughter_?”

 

“No more than you,” Jon growled, pushing her behind him. _You fool._

 

“Lord Father,” Alayne said, “Jon only sought his wolf. For some reason the beast has taken a liking to me and Jon came to fetch him, afraid he was a nuisance. I’m afraid this is all a terrible misunderstanding.”

 

“I am a brothel keeper, daughter,” Lord Baelish says, “Do you think I don’t know what a man desires?,” he asks her. _He’s testing me, testing Sansa._

 

“Of course, Lord Father, you know best in all things,” she says and curtseys to him. 

 

Ghost has placed in front of them both and is snarling at the guards who seem to have no desire to pursue him. 

 

“You’ve trained her well, Baelish,” Jon said, “She speaks as pretty as a bird for you. What will happen I wonder, when she shows you the fangs she’s been hiding?”

 

“I suppose I shall deal with it, not that you will be here to see it,” her Father promises. “Seize him, then wake Lord Robin. I do recall him complaining that no one has flown recently, that shall be remedied tonight.”

 

“ _No_!,” she shouts, placing her body in front of Jon’s. 

 

“Daughter, step aside,” Baelish says. “If you defend him, many will say it is _you_ who requested he visit.”

 

“I care not for my honour, Father,” she says, stepping forward, in front of Jon, in front of Ghost. She steps forward and takes hold of his hand, kissing it. “I care only for yours. This man has taken bread and salt. He is protected under guest right. Hold a trial, let there be no room for anyone to call you _murderer_. Please Father, I could never forgive myself if your noble name was besmirched because of my carelessness,” she pleaded, her eyes searching his. 

 

“Very well, then,” he said after a moment. He let a finger stroke her cheek and she found it within herself to beam up at him. “Take him and that wolf of his to one of the sky cells. If they survive the night, we shall hold a trial tomorrow.”

 

Ghost growled at the guards as they approached but Jon must have calmed him because he made no move against them as they seized Jon.

 

“My wolf’s done nothing,” Jon argued as they dragged him away, “Nothing but keep her safe from _you_.”

 

“You should not have abandoned your vows, Lord Snow,” Baelish said with a simpering smile, “I daresay a crow would have better chance at flying than a wolf.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rarely do same day updates but I just had to! Hope you enjoy.


	6. And you can't frighten me

It did not take Jon long to understand why the sky cells were so effective. It was not so much that they were high, that the floors were slanted, it was the openness, the vulnerability. It was late Fall, but even in the height of Summer a man could freeze to death out here. Rumour had it that after enough days, the fall was almost a relief. 

 

He was all the way at the back, his head at the wall, Ghost sleeping at his side, covering his body with his own the way he had on their many journeys. Jon clung to him, but even still resented his being there. He hadn’t fought, not Littlefinger, not the guards, not until Sansa had ordered Ghost to go with him. They were supposed to protect her, but here she was leaving herself vulnerable all to make sure he was _warm_ enough. As though there was a hearth on earth that could ease the chill in his bones that came from thinking of her alone with Littlefinger. 

 

It had amazed him that Ghost had done nothing, not even when Jon had started fighting. Sansa had gained his loyalty in a way that no one else had. Ghost had loved Robb, protected him in battle more than once, and before that had protected Sam as well, but never had he heeded someone else’s directive _over_ Jon’s. _Nor have I ever taken someone else’s council over my desires in such a way, either._

 

That is what he did all through that long night. He lay awake, hating himself for heeding Sansa’s council. It wasn’t because he was afraid for himself, because he might face death tomorrow, it was because he would be leaving her, leaving her all alone. After this, there would be no one else. 

 

Sansa would survive. If there was one thing that girl was capable of, it was survival. He had seen the loyalty she inspired in others, and the way she was able to manipulate people. But even still, no one would ever strive to save her for her own sake, only what she was. _The Key to the North._

 

He watched as the sky turned purple. The sunrise seemed particular beautiful, armed with the knowledge that it may be his last. 

 

“Don’t do anything stupid, boy,” he said, petting Ghost’s head. “If I fall, you have to protect her. _Promise me_.”

 

Ghost hummed in response, and to Jon’s immense surprise, he grew warmer.

 

***

 

She hadn’t slept, not for a minute. She lay awake all night, thinking of him in that cold, open cell. _Even crueler than the dark cells they kept Father in_ , Sansa thought. 

 

Alayne quickly banished her, rising from her bed to dress for the day. 

 

“Good morning, Daughter,” Lord Baelish said, his eyes opening from where he lay on her bed. 

 

She’d slept on top of the covers, as she always did while he was here. _Do not hide from me._ She would fall asleep and he would still be in the chair opposite the bed, watching her, _do not hide from me_ and when she woke in the morning he would be next to her. Sometimes he’d be holding her hand, once he’d been pressed against her back.

 

“Good morning, Father,” she said, forcing a smile on her face though she knew it proved hollow. He knew what she would be going through and all she could do was lie to them both. 

 

“Did you sleep well?,” he asked her, not bothering to sit up, examining her lazily as though these were his chambers. She supposed in a way they were. Everything she had was his. _Even my name_.

 

“Very well,” she lied again, turning away before he could see the dark circles she knew would appear. 

 

She went into her closet to pull out a gown for the day. 

 

“Wear the blue,” he said and she turned and smiled. Her hand had been hovering over the dove grey. _The Stark’s colour._

 

“I’m afraid Sweet-Robin spilled some of my wine on the blue, it is with my handmaiden while she tries to ease the stain,” she said, “I thought I might wear this,” she said, pulling the gown she’d been hovering over, “It will go well sitting next to Lord Robin in his charcoal doublet, will it not?”

 

“Very well,” he said, flicking his hand as if he were bored of the subject already. 

 

She lowered her head deferentially and went to the door to pull the ribbon for her handmaid. 

 

“Where are you going?,” he asked her. 

 

“It is a complicated back, I will need Tyla to assist,” she explained calmly. 

 

“Don’t bother Tyla so early,” he said, a small smile on his face, “I will help you.” She stood there, not quite sure where to look. “Go on, Daughter.”

 

She looked at him then, meeting his gaze. He was challenging her, she realized. A part of him, though it wasn’t clear how large that part was, wanted her to say no. Wanted her to fight, to give him an excuse. He had said nothing about finding Jon in her room, nothing about her arguing with him about how to handle it, nothing about what she could or could not do at the trial. She thought of Jon, of his dark grey eyes, of the way he made her blood feel like molten lava in her veins, of how safe she felt when he and Ghost were near. It was her turn now. _I’ll protect you, I promise_.

 

She pulled the ties of her robe apart.

 

“That’s it, Daughter. _Don’t hide from me_.”

 

***

 

The first thing he did when they brought him into the Great Room was look for Sansa. It did not take long, and his heart nearly stopped when he saw her, dressed in a gown of grey. She looked like a Northern Queen. She was seated at Lord Robin’s side, Littlefinger standing behind them both. _The man behind the throne._

 

She seemed unharmed, but she did not look at him at all. Her blue eyes, her Tully eyes, looked through him, just as her mother’s had. 

 

“My Lords and Ladies,” Littlefinger began, his smarmy voice booming so that all gathered could hear him. _What did they send out bloody invitations?_ Jon wondered, as he looked around and saw the crowd that had amassed. “We welcomed this man into our home, we helped this man, and this man has _dishonoured_ us.”

 

“The way I see it, Lord Baelish, this man has dishonoured _you_ ,” Lord Royce said, his pompous voice drenched with boredom. “I do not see why the Lords of the Vale need to be concerned with your daughter’s inability to keep her legs closed!”

 

Jon wasn’t quite sure if it was he or Ghost that growled, but one of them did and more than a few guards backed away from them. 

 

“ALAYNE’S DONE NOTHING WRONG!,” Lord Robin screamed at him, visibly shaking until Sansa placed a hand on his to calm him.

 

“Lord Robin is right, My Lord Royce, my daughter is blameless in all of this. He came to her chambers unbid. She has not been raised at court, she knows not the darkness of the hearts of men. Are we to blame her for her hospitality? The same hospitality you have all come to know from her?,” Lord Baelish said and others in the room started nodding. 

 

“I, of course meant you no offense, Lady Alayne,” Lord Royce said with a deferential bow of his head, clearly afraid that _he_ could be flying should he upset the mad little Lord. 

 

“And you gave none, Lord Royce,” Sansa said graciously. The old man smiled at her, a real smile. The same man who only a moment earlier had named her whore was smiling at her like she was the truest depiction of a Lady he’d ever seen. _It is Littlefinger he hates, not her. He admires her._

 

“My Lords,” Littlefinger continued, clearing his throat, “This man sought to defile a maiden, the step-sister of your liege Lord. It is his honour that should concern us all. Lord Robin will listen to Jon Snow’s account of the events of last night and if they should differ from Alayne’s, he shall be put to _death_.”

 

Jon had no idea what Sansa would have told Littlefinger. She could have told him any number of things to keep him from harm. She would have told him any number of lies. None of which could be repeated here. He looked at her, trying to see into the deep recesses of that vast mind into what story she might have told that would be both believable and repeatable. 

 

She looked back at him, her face an ivory mask, but her eyes, her blue eyes could not hide the fear that simmered behind it. 

 

_I’ll protect you, I promise._

 

“I may not have the Stark name, my Lords,” he said, looking around at the men he’d come to know in his time in the Vale, “But if there is one thing I share with my Father’s people…it is their hatred of speeches,” he said and the crowd amassed chuckled. 

 

He could feel the blue eyes boring a hole in his head, she of course, was the first to realise what he was about to do. But he would not look at her now. No, his gaze fell to the man who stood behind her. Who had the audacity to call himself her Father. 

 

“I demand a trial by combat.”

 

***

 

The room had gone silent after Jon’s demand, so all she could hear was her heartbeat thrumming her ears. 

 

 _You fool_ , she thought. 

 

The Gods cruelest joke was that he had not been named Stark. He was all North, all stubborn honour. Did he not realise how very little the Lords cared for this? Did he not see how she could sway Sweet-Robin to her side? Was he so fiercely committed to protecting her that he would risk leaving her alone for all time? _Yes_. 

 

 _Wolf’s blood_ , Sansa whispered. Alayne did not stop her as she usually would have, too focused on the crowd amassed in the hall, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. A few of the ladies had gasped. _Children_ , she thought enviously. 

 

“You do realise the Knight’s of the Vale are legendary for their _prowess_ on the battlefield?,” Lord Baelish asked Jon smugly. 

 

Jon gave a little smile, equally smug. “I do, I was raised on stories of their strength and honour.”

 

A few of the men straightened up. _Perhaps he is not such a fool as all that._

 

“Very well, who will step forward to meet the Bastard’s challenge?,” Lord Baelish asked. Bastard was a slip, he was getting nervous. 

 

To her surprise, none stepped forward. She remembered Lord Tyrion’s stories of his own trial-by-combat in this very room. Many had stepped forward against him that day. _So perhaps the war has reached the Vale after all._

 

“What about you, Lord Tollett,” he called out to the old war-hero. _He was at the Battle of the Trident with King Robert_ , she remembered. 

 

He would not be an easy adversary even now at his advanced age. Jon would be quicker, he smarter. It would go either way and all those present knew it.

 

The man stepped forward, placing his hand on his heart. “I beg Lord Robin’s pardon, but I must decline. Old bone’s make poor soldiers,” he lied. 

 

Jon had ridden out with him only the other day, and had dined with his son the day before. 

 

She felt Lord Baelish shuffle behind her, “Or you, Lord Corbray? Surely you would like to defend your Lord.”

 

Lord Corbray, a man of thirty, stepped forward. She’d only spoken to him once or twice, he was not much for court, preferring instead to spend time with his young children and his beautiful wife. _A happy man does not chase battle._

 

“I would defend my Lord with my life, gladly, Lord Baelish,” he said deferentially, “But I do not see him in harm’s way. So I regretfully decline.”

 

_And did I not see you laughing with Jon only last night?_

 

“If there is no one here who will fight, I see no other way,” Lord Baelish said and he almost sounded gleeful, convinced that he too could sway little Robin to his side. “You sought to defile my daughter, and for that you must pay. Did you or did you not go to my daughter Alayne’s chambers last night?”

 

“He did not,” she said, before she could think better of it.

 

***

 

If the hall had been quiet before, the silence that descended after the collective gasp was deafening. 

 

“Alayne be quiet or I shall have you _whipped_ for disobedience,” Littlefinger said, “I found him there.”

 

Ghost stalked forward, growling. There was nothing Jon could do, nothing he _wanted_ to do, to stop him. 

 

“It’s true,” she said, standing up from her chair, not bothering to look back at Littlefinger, knowing that there was nothing in this moment that he could do to stop her. “Jon came to my room last night,” she said, walking towards Ghost and intercepting him. 

 

Some of the women gasped, and he wasn’t sure if it was due to the way Ghost settled at her feet, puffing his chest out as he sat in front of her, or from the familiarity with which she’d said his name. 

 

“But he did not come to visit your daughter, Lord Baelish,” she said, “Nor any by the name of Alayne Stone.”

 

She stepped forward, passing by Ghost, not looking at Jon, nor Lord Robin, nor Littlefinger. She looked only to the Lords and knights of the Vale. 

 

“You see my Lords, it is I who must beg forgiveness for my sins,” she said. 

 

“And what sins are those?,” Lord Royce asked her, the leader of the Vale’s opposition to Littlefinger. 

 

“The sin of dishonesty,” she said humbly. When she looked up, it mattered not that her hair was a dark brown rather than an auburn red, every _bit_ of her screamed Tully, shouted Stark. “You see, I am not Alayne Stone. My name is Sansa Stark, I am the daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark. Your late lady Lysa’s own niece. I am the blood of Winterfell and this man, Jon Snow, is my brother.”

 

 _Half-brother,_ his mind corrected, focusing on the minute to give himself time to process what was happening, what she was doing. The girl who would not run away for fear of what would happen was now declaring herself to the entire Vale. _To save me_.

 

There wasn’t one person present that would deny her. He could see it in their faces, that it finally made sense. They had never been able to reconcile how one such as her could have come from Littlefinger. How a girl with honour in her bones could be the bastard of the most notorious turncoat in the Seven Kingdoms.

 

“Lady Sansa…,” Lord Royce said, kneeling in front of her, “I knew you as a little girl I…”

 

“We met when you escorted your son to the Wall. I should have told you sooner, I knew you then as a man of honour as I know you now. Can you forgive me, my Lord?,” she asked him humbly, and he was her man in that moment. 

 

“There is nothing to forgive, my Lady, you are blameless,” he said, kissing her hand. 

 

“I fought with your Father at Pyke,” Lord Egen said, stepping forward next, “He saved my life more than once.”

 

“As you saved his,” Sansa said, citing a memory Jon recalled, “At the _Battle of the Bells_ ,” he finished with her and Sansa turned to him and smiled, reaching out her hand. 

 

No guards would stop him now as he stepped forward, joining her. 

 

“I am so sorry, that you were put through this,” Lord Egen said to him, “To think a man could be put in the cells for trying to save his sister.”

 

“Worse things have happened to men trying to save their sisters,” Jon said, thinking of their Uncle Brandon. 

 

“Aye, but they should not,” Lord Royce said, standing up and putting himself in front of them, as though Sansa and he were children in need of protection. “You would have sent a man to his death for visiting his own _sister_?”

 

“I…didn’t….,” Littlefinger started.

 

“Know that you did not sire a child?,” Jon supplied and the lords amassed chuckled. “Or did not think that my sister, the girl you have been holding captive for a year would remember who she _was_? Were you never told, Lord Baelish, that you cannot tame a wolf?”

 

 _So that is what it looks like to see a feral creature caged_ , Jon thought as Littlefinger looked around nervously, trying desperately to think of what to do next. How had the man who thought ten steps ahead never realised that the girl he taught might one day learn how to launch his downfall. _Because he doesn’t know what it is to love._

 

It was a desperate move, when he grabbed Lord Robin by the the throat. He had thrown Sansa and Robin together. Hoping to rule Robin through ruling Sansa. It appeared he had never considered that they were family, nor that prisoners made loyal friends. He hadn’t imagined the boy and girl he used as pawns might grow to truly love each other, as family should. But they had and Sansa’s fear was all the directive Ghost needed. 

 

This time there was no one to stop him. No one tried. No one wanted to. 

 

When Ghost was finished, the noble Lords of the Vale dropped Littlefinger’s body unceremoniously through the moon door. In the end, a dead mockingbird could fly no better than a wolf. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally closing my eyes as I press post. Hope you enjoy xx


	7. Loyal to Their Own

They’d been on the road for weeks, and the hilly landscape had retreated into farmlands, gusts of wind sweeping off the plains and slowing down the horses even more than the inclines had. 

 

It had taken a few days to mobilise everyone. They’d set up a regency, with Lord Egen acting as Lord Robin’s guardian during his childhood. Jon could think of no one better to guide the little Lord, and even Sansa had been mollified when Lord Egen promised to send them weekly ravens. 

 

Egen’s first order of business had been to provide an ‘escort’ for Sansa and Jon, which comprised of 200 men, with more planning to join under Lord Royce’s command as soon as possible. 

 

_“Their Father lost his life defending the sons and daughters of this country from the evil Lannisters, what good are we if we do not save his son and daughter from them too?,” Lord Royce asked as they sat the council table._

 

_“Aye, three sons, two daughters. I mean no disrespect, I loved your Father, but we are speaking of thousands! Send word to your brothers and sister, bring them here to wait out the coming storm. Let Stannis and the bloody Lannisters fight over that iron seat and let us fortify for the wars ahead. Two kings are dead and more will fall. Afterall, Winter is coming…,” Lord Tollett said._

 

_Jon rubbed his eyes and sighed. They’d been arguing over the next course of action for hours, he and the Lords of the Vale. Sansa sat silently, Ghost at her side._

 

_“You dare say that to a Stark?” Lord Egen demanded, “Aye, Winter is coming. The Starks are always right in the end…Your Aunt Lysa Arryn was our Lady, she was the widow of our beloved Lord Arryn and for that we heeded her demand to stay out of the fray. There was a call to arms when your brother Robb called his banners, we sat in this very room and debated, weighed the options. We sat around, high up in our castle, like a war was nothing but a game of chess. How many sons and daughters of Westoros died because we made the wrong move?”_

 

_“If you ask me, the Starks lost their castle. Why should it be us to fetch it back for them?,” Harry the Heir asked, as though the subject bored him already._

 

_“But we didn’t ask you,” Sansa said, breaking her silence. “We didn’t ask for any of this. Jon, left his home, his family, to go off to the wall to defend yours. I left my home and my family, to go to King’s Landing, to be your future Queen. We didn’t ask for the Lannisters to kill King Robert. We didn’t ask them to kill our Father. We didn’t ask them to kill our brother. Or my Mother. Your liege lord, my…,” Sansa trailed off, looking at Ghost and Jon knew she was thinking of her sweet direwolf Lady, another innocent victim of the Lannister’s greed. “We didn’t ask for any of this. We didn’t start any of this. I did not ask to be brought here, my Lords. But I was brought here. I saw for myself what my father had always told me. That the Knights of the Vale were the noblest in the land, that they placed duty over desire, that their morality was their strength. The last time the Lords of the Vale and the Lords of the North named themselves allies they toppled the most destructive dynasty the world had ever seen. News of this will spread. If you let us go, it will not be long before the Rains of Castamere start playing outside of your doors. This is not a game of chess, this is a coin toss. Name us traitors to the crown and drop us through the moon door or name us allies and help us recover the North. Those are your choices, my Lords, Cersei will not give you another.”_

 

_“Tommen is King, not Cersei,” Harry said stupidly. The rest of the other Lords sat speechless, just as Jon did._

 

_Sansa gave Harry a smile, it was a smile Jon had seen only once, on Littlefinger when he told Jon of the beatings she’d received in King’s Landing._

 

_“You’re right, Lord Hardyng, you are so good to remind me,” she said, with a demure bow of her head, “Of course, I would remind you, that just as Cersei is not King, Littlefinger was not Lord of the Vale.”_

 

They were too far North to meet the King’s men, but they had entered Bolton land now and one scout had gone missing already. Sansa had denied the use of the litter, but had kept her hair dark, not that there was any ability to hide now. 

 

They’d slept in a village the night before, and he’d been able to secure a room in a farmhouse for her, but he knew her well enough to know that she did not care for riding, and that she’d be deeply in want of a bath. There was an inn he knew of not far off, and he urged his horse on, determined to get there before nightfall. 

 

 

“We’ll be stopping soon,” he assured her, though she hadn’t asked as she cantered at his side. 

 

“Is that wise?,” she asked, surveying the endless land before them. “There is no forest to take shelter in, and the townsfolk fear the Bolton’s blades more than the wolves fangs.”

 

_Fear is easy, the way to true loyalty is through love._

 

He chanced a look at her. She may not like to ride, but she sat in a saddle like any Northerner. She may have been a lady at three, but she was Ned Stark’s daughter. She did not sit side-saddle like the Southern ladies. She sat tall and proud, on a beautiful grey horse, her long hair in a single braid down her back, a flush in her cheeks from the cold air. 

 

“We are in the North, Sansa,” he said with a small smile, _you’re home_ , “The Bolton’s may have taken Winterfell, but you are Sansa Stark, the flower of the North. Every innkeeper from here to White Harbor will be jockeying to give you shelter.”

 

She looks at him through lowered lashes. _She doesn’t believe me_ , he thinks. _She has been too long at court._

 

“Sansa you rallied the Lords of the Vale to our cause, do you really think that the people of the North, _your_ people wo-“

 

“ _Our_ people,” she corrected him, fire in her beautiful blue eyes. 

 

“I’m not a Stark,” he said. _No Stark man would feel what I feel._

 

“Jon you have saved us all, one by one, who would - who else would have done what you did?,” she asks, “I never….apologised.” He looks at her, the girl who had saved his life, more than doubled their army, the girl who he was pretty sure could open his stomach and hand him his organs and he’d thank her for the gift.  “I should have come clean sooner, to the Lords of the Vale. I should have told everyone the moment you walked in the Great Hall. I should have rushed into your arms and called you brother as soon as I saw you.”

 

He had thought a lot about that. He lay awake at night and tried to play the scenario over in his head. What would they have done? Those Northern Lords if the Bastard Alayne had jumped in to his, another Bastard’s, arms and called him brother?

 

“You couldn’t have known,” he says, “You didn’t know how they would have reacted…,” and then, as though he can’t help it, that part of him that was still the little boy sulking in the corner as his half-siblings played said, “You didn’t know me.”

 

She slows into a trot then and he nearly falls off his horse as he slows with her. 

 

“I knew you,” she says vehemently. “All I needed was to hear your name and it was like-… like hearing the bells of Winterfell, or smelling one of Old Nan’s pies…I knew I’d be safe the moment you walked in, Jon. It was _you_ I feared for. But who knows, maybe if I had come clean all of this could have been avoided, Littlefinger would still be alive and -“

 

“Is that what you want?,” Jon asked her, a pain at the bridge of his nose, _Did I have it wrong? Did she love him after all?_ “For Littlefinger to be alive and at your side?”

 

“No,” she said firmly, “I don’t wish he was alive, he was an evil man, I only… if I had only _said something,_ said something the moment I heard your name, or even before. We might be home already. _Rebuilding_. Together.”

 

“I thought you were always the patient one,” he said, not being to help teasing her, not when his heart was so full. 

 

“Aye,” she said, sounding like a Northern lady. “Patient and courteous,” she said, “That’s what Septa Mordane always said a lady ought to be,” then she shook her head as though trying to blink back tears. “Septa Mordane was patient, she was courteous. And they _killed_ her. Sometimes a lady needs stronger armour than that.”

 

“That’s what I’m here for,” he said, like a vow, “So that you do not need armour at all.”

 

She smiled at him, the tears forgotten. It is a brilliant smile. Full of warmth and hope, the kind of smile a man would die to see once more. 

 

“Then I better hope you never turn against me,” she said, “Though I suppose I would still have Ghost to protect me.” He opened his mouth to protest at her teasing and she only laughed at him, “Is that our inn?,” she asked, as a small stone structure came into view. 

 

He felt dizzy so he only nodded. 

 

“Then come along, Jon Snow, for we are both in need of baths,” she said and urged her horse back into a gallop. 

 

Her cloak whipped behind her, and he saw the men turn to look at her as she spurred on. He chased after her, not for her protection but because he _wanted_ to. 

 

There were many things he could be thinking of. Many things he should be. But there was only one thought in his mind. 

 

_It was you I feared for._

 

***

 

She stayed in the bath until the water went from tepid to cold. Lady Egen had given her some lavender oil before she left the Vale and she had made use of it, determined to rid herself of her days in the saddle. 

 

It had been so long since she’d been in the North, that she hadn’t known what to expect when she got here. From the way the country spoke, it was as though the entire Seven Kingdoms had been razed to the ground, but it wasn’t true. The Lannister army had never marched this far, so the most they’d seen was untended farmland. Most of the damage the Ironborn had done was to the coastal towns and the Boltons had no need to burn the land. They were evil, but they were not foolish. They were Northern born and would not be careless with food and labor so close to Winter. 

 

The inn they’d come to was like something out of a storybook. Built with mismatching stones, with three separate chimneys and the smell of baking bread. The innkeeper’s wife was a stout woman of Northern stock and had tutted over her from the moment Jon had escorted her inside. _Oh my Lady how very good it is to see you. I met your own lady mother on her way North for the first time, may the gods bless her soul_ , she’d said, dabbing at her moistened eyes with her apron, _Now you must be in need of some quiet and a hot bath, just so?_

 

They’d brought in ewers and ewers of hot water and Jon had gone off to make sure the men were seeing to the horses, saying only that he’d see her for supper. When the last of the servants had left she’d made the innkeeper’s wife that she would see to him as well, make him bathe. _You can lead a horse to water_ , _my lady…_ she’d said, but had promised anyway. 

 

Sansa had wrapped herself in a bath sheet and combed out her hair in front of the fire, letting the flames dry her. She pulled out a soft gown of grey, with a high collar and delicate stitching. 

 

When she was ready she left her chamber, going to walk down to the dining room. 

 

“Sansa? I…was just coming to fetch you,” Jon said, appearing at her side. 

 

She nearly laughed when she saw him, he looked fresh, the way he would after Old Nan had grown tired of his and Robb’s antics and forced them into the bath. His hair was tied back with a leather chord and his doublet was black wool. She noticed it was fraying at the cuffs and realised he must not have had it mended since before he left for the wall. 

 

“I was tempted by the smells,” she explained and nearly giggled, something she had not done for some time, when she heard his stomach growl in response. 

 

“Well then let’s not tarry,” he said and to her surprise, offered her his arm. 

 

She took it, and took care not to clench too tightly to the muscles she found there. 

 

When they stepped into the dining room it fell silent. There were Vale men there, mixed in with Northerners, but all stood. 

 

“Oh My Lady don’t you look lovely,” the innkeeper’s wife Madge said. 

 

Sansa smiled at her and took her offered hands, allowing her to take her over to what she imagined to be the place of honor, closest to the fire. She smiled at Jon over her shoulder, beckoning for him to join her, and was delighted to find Ghost already curled up by her seat, gnawing on a bone that very well may have once belonged to a moose. 

 

Jon followed and sat at her side. There seats were switched, it should have been her on his left side and not the other way around, but he didn’t see it that way, and she wouldn’t broach an argument over court decorum in an inn’s dining room. 

 

“My Lady,” a man said, approaching as she and Jon took their seats. “I am so pleased to see you once again in the North, where you belong,” he said, taking off his cap and bowing his head slightly. 

 

“Thank you, sir,” she said, though it was clear this man was no knight. There were not many knights in the North, the practice had not made it’s way as it had in the other kingdoms. It did not matter. His coat bore the lizard-lion sigil of House Reed, so he was more welcome than and Lord could hope to be. “How is your Lord, Howland Reed? I hear his children rescued my brothers. I am in his debt.”

 

“If it would not be impertinent to say so, my Lady, I know that my Lord would disagree with you. The Reed’s serve the Stark’s proudly and unconditionally. There is no better fate than to help those who need it. Those who deserve it,” he said earnestly. 

 

“You are very wise, sir,” she said, “And loyal too. You are a credit to your Lord and to the North, and I thank you for your kindness, please, if you have not already, take your supper with us.”

 

“Thank you, my Lady, but I have had my fill,” he said. “Welcome home, Lady Sansa. _The North Remembers_.”

 

A chill ran down Sansa’s spine when the men around them, even those of the Vale, chorused, “ _The North Remembers_.” 

 

She hadn’t realised they’d been listening, and it takes all her strength to smile at the man as he bows to her and then to Jon before exiting the inn. 

 

“What a kind man,” she said, regaining her composure and turning to Jon. 

 

He is looking at her intently, and she doesn’t quite understand it, but something in his gaze makes her straighten her posture, angling her chin just so. _This is how  Margery Tyrell sat_ , she thought, internally chastising herself. She hadn’t thought of her friend in a long time. She was a widow now, twice over, and a bride as well if the news was to be believed. She’d taught Sansa a great deal. A different kind of teaching but a teaching nonetheless. 

 

Like Sansa’s father, Margery had believed that the root of loyalty was love. So she had seduced all those around her, whether they be old or young. She was the shy virgin or the all-knowing whore depending on who she spoke to, and Sansa had been as powerless against her as the others. She’d been Sansa’s favourite teacher, kinder than Cersei, safer than Littlefinger.

 

With her chin angled down, she looked up at Jon, settling her blue eyes on him and saw his grey ones widen slightly in response. 

 

“Wasn’t he?,” she asked, a small smile playing on her lips. 

 

He cleared his throat and smiled softly at her in return, making her feel guilty for playing with him. 

 

“A good man,” he said, agreeing with her. His eyes turned darker then, “But you could pull loyalty from a dead man.”

 

She thought of the enemy before them. Of the family that stole their home, betrayed her family, killed her mother. She thought of the usurpers who named themselves Lords of Winterfell.

 

“What of a flayed man?,” she asked, the games forgotten. 

 

“Flayed men still have hearts, Sansa, and eyes, and ears,” he said softly, “A blade cannot take a man’s soul.”

 

“The Bolton’s have no souls,” she said bitterly. 

 

“No,” he said, and there was hatred in her voice that turned the blood in her veins to ice. “They do not. There will be no redemption for them.”

 

“ _The North Remembers_ ,” she says softly. 

 

“And soon they shall know it,” he agrees.

 

She wasn’t sure whose hand reached for whose under the table, but they grasped each other fiercely, their hands intertwined like vines, and it felt like they were sealing a blood oath. _Or a marriage vow,_ Alayne said inside of her. 

 

For once, it was Sansa who pushed her away.

 


	8. Gentle the Rage

He woke in the night to the smell of smoke and the sounds of chaos. _Sansa_ , was his first and only thought. 

 

He jumped out of bed, relieved that Ghost was not with him. If Ghost was alive, and Jon would know if he were dead, then Sansa was alive too. 

 

He grabbed his weathered cloak and yanked on his boots, grabbing Long Claw and rushing out the door. 

 

The sight that greeted him was like something out of the _End of Days_ nonsense the Red Priests were preaching about as they traveled through the Seven Kingdoms. A serving girl ran, her top torn open and a man at her heels, laughing lasciviously. 

 

Jon did not care to look at the sigil on the man’s doublet, he stuck Long Claw into his side. Rapists had no place in the North, no matter where their loyalties lay. 

 

He ran down the hall to the large chamber he’d secured for Sansa. He banged on the door. “Sansa! Sansa!,” he cried, but he knew that she would not be able to distinguish his voice, not with the sounds of death cries all around them. 

 

He knocked hard twice, then quick three times. _Robb’s knock._

 

Within a moment, the door was open and a shaking dagger was aimed at his heart. 

 

“Sansa,” he said, as calmly as he could, but his eyes were surveying her for any signs of harm. All he saw was fear and steely resolve. _This is not the first time the mob has come for her_ , he realised, thinking of the rumours they’d heard of the Rape of King’s Landing. 

 

The dagger clattered to the floor and she was in his arms in the next moment. 

 

“I tried to get to you but Ghost wouldn’t- he _growled_ at me,” she said indignantly and he couldn’t help but smile into her hair. 

 

“Good boy, Ghost,” he said and held her tightly until he felt her body stop shaking and her breathing steady. 

 

He set her down and took her face in his hands. _By the gods she’s beautiful_ , he thought stupidly. War and death raged around him and he was falling deeper and deeper into her eyes. 

 

“I have to go, Sansa,” he said and he felt her clutch him with more strength than he knew she had. “I cannot ask our men to fight and die for us while I hide in here with my… sister,” he said and blushed at how unreasonably long it had taken for him to think of that word. “Ghost will stay with you -“

 

“No!,” she said adamantly. “If I am to be safe in here and you out there then he needs to be with you. If he is to stay with me then give me armour and I will fight the Bolton’s _myself_.”

 

There wasn’t a part of him that didn’t believe her, and for a brief moment he saw her on her grey horse and a crown on her head, leading their men into battle. It was a thought that hit him so starkly that it was almost like a memory, one that hadn’t yet occurred but was no less certain for it. 

 

“F-fine,” he said, shaken, “I will go and fetch a guard for you. They will do Robb’s knock. Answer for _no one_ else. When they come, release Ghost. But not a moment before, am I clear?” She nodded and he pulled her to him, kissing her forehead so that he did not do something more stupid. “If I fall, head South to Riverrun. Arya and your Great Uncle the Blackfish are there. They will help you if I cannot. If I-“ _die,_ he almost said, but found he could not. For that would be admitting that he had failed, failed her, failed to keep his promise to Robb. 

 

“You will not die here, Jon,” she said, and her voice sounded like it was at the bottom of a tomb. As though she too was seeing a memory she had not yet experienced. “This is not where it ends for us.”

 

With one last look and a kiss to her palm, one that later he’d blame on the heightened circumstances, he left her, but did not descend the stairs until he heard her bar the door behind him. 

 

He descended into the madness of the fray, slashing this way and that, his sword bloodied before he’d even made it to the dining room. They had come for her, it was clear. _The Key to the North_ , _Sansa Stark_. The girl who was rumoured to have killed King Joffrey, the girl who killed Littlefinger. The flower of the North with her mother’s beauty and her father’s name. 

 

He thought about the shaking dagger in her hand and the blues of her eyes and the vision he’d had of her as a warrior Queen. When his sword plunged into the Bolton’s men, it felt like justice, and when Ghost joined him, tearing at this one and that, it felt like vengeance.

 

 _The North Remembers_. 

 

***

 

_Madness is sitting in a locked room while a war rages on outside your door._

 

Jon had found one of the best, a large man of the Vale with two swords at his side and a fearsome, hardened look about him. He had gone through the motions of checking her for injury and barricading the door and then had set about pacing for the better part of an hour. He was a soldier, raised on the battlefield, and now he was caged like a wild animal. He showed her no disrespect but she could not meet his eyes all the same. 

 

“If they get through -,” she started. 

 

“If they get through I have orders to take you to Riverrun by whatever means necessary,” he said. He had no interest in speaking of plans with her, for he knew that if they got through, if their men fell, if _Jon_ fell, there would be no hope for them. 

 

“Orders that will mean nothing to the spears of the Bolton men,” she said. He may not want to speak, but he would listen. She was his Lady twice over for all intents and purposes. “If they get through, I will demand an audience with Roose Bolton. I will offer myself as Ramsay’s bride - No, do not argue. I _know_ what he is, I _know_ what they’ve done. There will be a jockeying for me. You are not to defend me. You are to run and find the fastest horse you can find and _you_ will ride straight for Riverrun, galvanise my uncle and his men, get word to Lord Egen in the Vale. Listen to _nothing_ of what you hear of me. Let _nothing_ deter you. If something should happen to me, Arya is the eldest Stark and you will rally the Vale and the Riverlands to her cause as you all came to mine.”

 

His pacing has stopped. 

 

“My Lady…even if you _survive_ …it’s… you do not know what they will do to you,” he says. “What men will line up to do to Robb Stark’s sister. You will be lucky if they merely rape you or flay you. The Bolton’s are loyal to House Lannister now, they could just as easily send you back to King’s Landing,” he argues. 

 

“They could, and you will _persist_. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. It is inconsequential which one. As long as there is a Stark, the North will rally, the North will remember,” she said adamantly, speaking with the fervour of the devoted, “Promise me.”

 

“They will say - they will say I am a turncoat, that I am a coward that I -,” he starts and she realises then that for all his strength and stature he is only a little boy, drunk on stories of Aemon the Dragonknight. 

 

“The noblest thing you could do is let them think that of you. Your death does nothing, achieves nothing. _Live_ , Ser Portyn, live and fight and when Arya stands on the battlements, and Bran sits in it’s Great Hall, when Rickon spars in the training yard, when the lost direwolves of Winterfell are home they will howl songs of your _nobility_ , your _honour_. The Lannister’s always pay their debts, it’s true, but winter is a time for wolves and make no mistake, Ser Portyn, Winter is Coming.”

 

He unsheathes his sword and for a brief moment she is afraid that he will bring her through a hidden passageway to the stable and set her on a horse, that he will take her to Riverrun whether the battle is lost or not. 

 

But instead, the brave knight of the Vale, her man twice over, kneels before her and offers her his sword. 

 

He was noble, it was true, and strong, quick with a blade. He would have been an ardent protector, a fierce warrior in her cause, and she had just demanded that he give her to the mob. She could only hope that the Bolton’s were stupid enough to undermine her, pompous enough to think that all men were as disloyal as they. 

 

_Sometimes the best way to baffle them is to make moves that have no purpose, or even serve to work against you. Remember that, Sansa, when you come to play the game._

 

The battle raged on outside and a smell of death and smoke filled the air. She sat and waited, and now she felt no madness, no purpose either. Her only thought was of Jon, of the strange memory she’d seen. An image of him being crowned, with her by his side. 

 

It was that image that allowed her to sit by the fire, mending the doublet Jon had been wearing earlier that evening. She poked her needle in and out, watching something broken heal slowly but surely. 

 

She thought of the men and women who had been torn from their beds. The ones who years earlier had left their families to follow her brother into war. She thought of the children who went hungry at night because the Bolton men had stolen the food. _Under, over, under, over_ her needle went. 

 

This land was broken too, in need of mending. _Under, over, under, over_ her needle continued. 


	9. You may survive us yet

In the end, Ramsay didn’t show. It was proof enough that he did not deserve to hold the seat of Winterfell, that he would send others to manage business such as this.

 

Jon walked down the line of men, the last of the Bolton soldiers as they stood at the makeshift gallows.

 

“You don’t have to be here,” he said to Sansa, where she stood, mercifully, beautifully at his side, unharmed.

 

“Yes I do,” she said coldly. Jon blanched. She had seen their own father butchered, this was not the girl who had left Winterfell all those years ago with a song in her heart and innocence in her bones.

 

She stepped forward, surveying the men. Some were battle-hardened, a few only boys. She stepped towards one who wore the Umber sigil.

 

“Lord Umber was loyal to my brother Robb, yet you came today, serving the man who plunged a sword in his heart, to…what? Kill us? Take us prisoner?,” Sansa asked.

 

“We were to-“ he started but was cut off by another prisoner.

 

“Silence!,” the man shouted.

 

“It don’t matter now, we’s about t’die and she’s right. Thems we owe our loyalty to not the bloody Boltons.”

 

“They’ll flay our families!”

 

“Roose Bolton will flay your family either way. He knows naught what transpires here today and none among us will tell him. It is _you_ who sided with a man that would flay his enemies, when it was my father who outlawed flaying to make sure that none would suffer that fate. Now, you were saying,” Sansa said to the first man, almost sweetly.

 

_Just as I thought, she can pull loyalty from a dead man._

 

“We were to kill the men and take you back to Roose,” the man said, and hung his head. Jon had to fight the urge to pull the lever at that moment. That any of these Northmen would take Sansa Stark, the Rose of the North to suffer at the hands of the Bolton. He felt him losing control and a feral growl escaped his lips. He had no pity for the man even when he saw urine dripping down his leg.

 

“And did your Lord tell you what he planned to do with me?,” Sansa asked him, the sweet girl gone, the she-wolf in her place.

 

“To marry you… to his son Ramsay…,” her man said.

 

Sansa nodded, pacing back and forth, looking now more like a caged lion than anything else. It was mesmerising, how she could switch from one personality to the next. The Tyrell flower, the Stark wolf, the Lannister lion.

 

“Sansa…,” Jon said, this version of her scaring him the most.

 

She looked up at him as though she’d forgotten he was there. She looked back at the prisoners, all standing there, waiting to die. She could have been Tywin Lannister himself for the way she walked away from them, caring not that they all stood shivering in fear. Jon followed her quickly, and when they were out of ear shot she turned to him.

 

“Ramsay needs a wife,” she said, “And I need a castle…”

 

“No,” he growled.

 

“Listen to me Jon, please. We have to be smarter than Father, we have to be smarter than Robb. The Bolton’s are usurpers, they feel the uneasiness of the treacherous. They know they have no claim, even more so with our brothers still living. They need a way to solidify their standing in Winterfell, in the North. I am the key to the North.”

 

“You are _not_ a pawn!,” he cried, “You are nobodies key but your own. We are taking back Winterfell for you, and Arya and Bran and Rickon. I will not sacrifice you to the Boltons, what is there to be gained from it?”

 

“Think about it, Jon…I hold their reins. If I marry Ramsay, I legitimise his status and undermine Bran and Rickon’s. The Boltons will think that the North would prefer any Father and Son over two young boys. They are bullish and foolish and they will let their guard down over time…”

 

“How long Sansa? How many times will Ramsay _rape_ you before the soldiers of the Vale come? How long before your Uncle Brynden makes it this far North? Do you think I would let you give yourself over to _gain information_? I would sooner drag you North of the Wall and let you live out your days in a cave than I would sell you to them…”

 

“I am your Lady, Jon…”

 

“Aye, and when you and your brothers and sister are back in Winterfell you can hang me for a traitor, for it is only over my dead body that you will surrender yourself to them…”

 

“This could work.”

 

“Perhaps, but we’ll never know.”

 

***

 

They gave the men a proper burial. The Starks were not the crown, or the Wise Masters, they did not leave corpses behind to do their warning for them. They prowled the countryside like wolves, sticking together as a pack and snapping at anything unfamiliar. Jon no longer requested the choicest rooms in the inn for her, and she took to dining in her rooms rather than show her face to the masses.

 

They had sent a raven south to Riverrun, calling her Uncle and his banners to join them North. The army from the Vale had set forth a week prior, and would be joining them in another week if the snows held off.

 

She had been relieved when Jon fought her, relieved and frustrated all at once. She had no great desire to be wed to Ramsay Bolton, whose cruelty was more infamous than Joffrey’s, but she knew that she could make her plan work. The Bolton’s were bullish and cruel but they weren’t stupid. They had no reason to join them in the open field, not when they could hunker down and prepare for a siege.

 

No army could take Winterfell, every man, woman and child in the North knew that. It had only been taken twice, both times by deception. Sansa knew that the third would be the same. The most dangerous blades were sheathed in the finest scabbards.

 

They were wasting time, calling their banners, drawing up their battle plans. They would all be for naught when their enemy refused to fight them.

 

“We’ve been over this a thousand times,” she argued.

 

“Aye and I’ve made my decision,” he rounded on her, the vein in his neck threatening to pop.

 

Supper had been cleared away hours ago and the generals had just left, off to their beds and the whores that warmed them. She had sat their silently as they drew up plans, arguing over a pincer versus a herringbone. The candles were receding and only Ghost lay happily on the floor.

 

“And it is just up to you?,” she cried.

 

“I am the Lord Commander of our armies, it is up to me,” he said, “Everything that concerns your safety _is up to me_ , and I thank the gods for it everyday! You are so hell bent on sacrificing yourself that you can’t see straight!”

 

“And you are so hell bent on protecting me that _you_ can’t see straight!,” she railed right back at him. “I am _not_ the only thing we are fighting for.”

 

“Yes you -,” he started then shut his mouth. Their breath was coming raggedly and they stared at each other across the table.

 

“We have three siblings we are fighting for, thousands of our people we are fighting for, a home we are fighting for…,” she reminded him. He closed his eyes and rested his hands on the table leaning forward, nodding. She wasn’t going to let him out of this that easily though. He was blind, that much was clear, and it was clouding his judgment. She crossed the table towards him. “Look at me, Jon,” she commanded. When he did nothing she repeated, “Look at me.”

 

You would think there were thousand pound weights on his eyes for the time it took for him to open them. He looked at her, but his gaze did not reach her eyes, hovering somewhere on her shoulder. 

 

“If you ever insinuate that I am all you are fighting for again, I will find our armies a new Lord Commander, do you understand me?,” she said quietly, knowing he would be listening to every word.

 

“I understand,” he said, just as quietly. She nodded and turned to leave, but he grabbed her by the arm, pulling her harshly to him. She was pinned against him, one arm behind her and he took her face in the other hand. “But if you ever mention giving yourself over to Ramsay Bolton again, I will ride North to Winterfell and offer myself as prisoner instead. Do _you_ understand _me_?”

 

He was so close, and where it had once been he who averted her gaze, now it was she that could not meet his eye. The thought of him at the Bolton’s mercy churned the bile in her stomach and she knew then that that is why she would offer herself, to keep him safe. She was no better than he, no more clear-headed.

 

“What chance can the North have, when two people as selfish as we are its only hope?,” she asked him.

 

“Love is the death of duty,” he said, as though from a half-remembered dream.

 

Years from now, she wouldn’t be able to say who first sought the other’s lips, all she’d be able to remember was the fire that ignited in her when they touched. He kissed her as though he meant to devour her, and she clung to him, offering herself up to the oblivion.

 

 

 


	10. Strong like my lady mother

The miles had seemed to drag, now that they were ridden in silence. She was never alone, not for a moment, and yet, she had almost no companions.

 

She was the only woman traveling in the retinue, if one did not count the camp followers, and the men she had around her were all Northern men. The soldiers from the Vale made up much of their retinue, but Jon did not fully trust them, and so, it was Glover and Hornwood and Reed men that surrounded her. They treated her with deference, the same one might show a princess, but these were men who respected her father, who followed her brother into battle - in part to save her. They would lay down their lives to protect her, gladly, but that did not mean they pursued her in conversation.

 

Jon kept his distance, rarely riding at her side. They sat at meals together, but Jon had taken up the practice of their father, and often had a man with them. Either a general or a blacksmith. He would ask them about their business and what they thought of one tactic or another. She would sit there, drinking her small ale, eating her pigeon pie, in silence.

 

It was not something _new_ to her. She had spent years at court trying to achieve this very thing. How she dreamt of a meal spent without someone ridiculing her or shaming her, without anyone noticing her at all. The difference was, now she wanted to be noticed.

 

She did not mean by crowds of Stark supporters or by the innkeeper’s wives. She only needed to be noticed by one person. Jon.

 

They were now at the Glover castle, had arrived a week before. They would wait here while they waited for the rest of the army. Waiting and training. The men were rowdy. There was something about the routine of knowing where one would sleep that night that had relaxed them all, and so, even though they spent hours a day training for a battle that was bound to be terrible and hard-fought, they dined and laughed together as though they were nothing but squires at a tourney.

 

Sansa stood, and all the men of her table stood with her. She wasn’t sure why the Southerners thought that the Northerners were barbarians, even after all the time she had sat amongst them. They smelled nicer, dressed fairer, but lacked the steady courtesy that could be found amongst the snows.

 

“Good evening, gentlemen, I will take my leave,” she said courteously.

 

They all bowed to her, even Jon, and she climbed the stairs. She had come to this castle only a few times as a girl, but it had always seemed to her more fortress than home. She felt that now. Even though they were in truth weeks away from battle, all felt like the eve of the Blackwater - except this time, she was sure who she wanted to win.

 

She remembered being there in the Red Keep. All of those women terrified that Stannis’ men could get through. All except her. All she could think about was finding a safe place to hide until the battle was over. She did not doubt what the Queen said about a sack. She had been there when the mob won out on the way back to the castle. She knew what men did to women to show them their anger. But she knew, in her heart, that if she could only wait someplace safe until Stannis had declared order that she would be spared. She would be, in his mind, the sister of a traitor but the the daughter of a man who had died in support of his claim. If everything her father had told her about the man were true, she would be heavily guarded for the former, and reverently protected for the latter. She would still, however, be kept until it was time to be married off. She had no illusions that she would be able to marry for love, only the benefit of her sovereign. He would nullify her marriage to Tyrion, of that she was sure, and she had been surprised to find herself wondering if her next husband would be ask kind as he. She hated the Queen and Joffrey, but after all this time as their prisoner, she felt as though she knew them. She had the measure of them. How far they would go, what not to say so as not to upset them. Joffrey was cruel, but stupid, and she had found a way of using this to her advantage. Stannis was not cruel, but just above all else. There was no swaying a man such as that. It would be like trying to pry a stone from a mountain.

 

But now she did not need to weigh her options. It was clear who she wanted to win. Her whole life depended on it. There was no option better than him. He was fighting for her, after all, he had said so himself.

 

She made it into her chambers. They had once belonged to Lord Glover’s daughter. His favorite daughter. Before she had been killed by the Boltons. She did not care for the room, despite the large cozy bed and fine furnishings. It was not right that she was here, while little Lady Glover was not. She would not make her home in a crypt.

 

She should call for her handmaid, but she found that she could not use one without thinking of Shae, and so she removed her own gown, hanging it in the closet and pulling her robe over her shift. It was easier now in the Northern dresses, she could never have undressed in the Southern styles, with their complicated backs. She sat at the vanity and brushed out her hair. It took a moment to realise that she was humming to herself. It was a long forgotten melody that her mother was particularly fond of. How many evenings had she sat a table like this one while her mother brushed out her hair, asking for one tune or another? She found that as she got further North, the more memories she was hit with.

 

She had banished the thought away and rose, getting ready to add another log to the fire before climbing into her bed. Before she could though, she heard a knock on the door. Robb’s knock.

 

She went and opened it, and was not surprised that Ghost squeezed through the small opening she had created first, climbing up on the bed - his post as it were. She looked at Jon, and his nearly black eyes pleaded with her to let him in. Though whether it was he was desperate to speak with her or desperate _not_ to speak with her in the hall, she knew not.

 

She closed the door behind him and waited. After weeks of all but being ignored by him, she would not excuse him now, she would not make this easier. She jutted her chin forward proudly. She was the Blood of Winterfell, she would not cower, nor beg.

 

“This cannot continue,” he said finally. “This…rift between us. We have _so_ many enemies now.”

 

“How dare you?,” she asked him. “How dare you come in here after _weeks_ of ignoring me, of averting my gaze, and have the gall to tell me that we most repair this rift? You _created_ it! You _abandoned_ me!”

 

“For the love of the gods keep your voice down,” he pleaded. He crossed to her, pulling her to him, “Do not say I abandoned you. I have never left your side. I _will_ never leave your side.”

 

She shoved away from him. She could not think clearly when he was near. Not when his dark grey eyes were drinking her in, begging her to believe in him.

 

Because the sad truth was, she did. She believed in him more than anything. More than any cause, any loyalty, any gods. She believed in him as much as she believed that the sun would rise.

 

“Not physically - no. But what good does it do you to protect my body if you will sacrifice my heart?,” she asked. This was not how she wanted this to go. These were not the words of a strong woman, a princess. She sounded like a foolish little girl who believed in all the songs and stories, though she had not been that girl for some time.

 

“By the gods, Sansa - do not test me. Do not speak to me of your _heart_ ,” he pleaded with her. “So help me I will leave with you tonight and travel as far East as East goes. Is that what you want? To abandon our brothers and sister? Our people? Our home?”

 

“Why do we have to choose?,” she asked.

 

“You know why,” he growled.

 

“What like it’s obvious?,” she asked. Targaryens had married their sisters for thousands of years, and they were only half-siblings. After all the pain and suffering their people had gone through, could they not be glad to have true Starks ruling them?

 

“Well it _is_ a bit obvious,” he said, almost mockingly. She could hear the hurt underneath his words though, underneath the venom there was a scared boy - one who had never been a true Stark, and who did not feel as though he deserved one now.

 

“Our people love you, Jon. They love you because they know you are their best chance of survival. Robb knew it too. Who else could he task with something such as this? He trusted you. He believed in you. He knew you were the only one who could keep me safe,” she said gently, taking his hands in hers.

 

“To keep you safe,” he echoed, moving her hands back down to her sides, “As our _sister_. Do you know what Robb would say now if he knew what I think of when I think of you? He would send me to every one of the Seven Hells.”

 

“Is that what you fear? That you will be punished for this?,” she asked him, fighting the tears springing to her eyes.

 

“No, Sansa. I fear that you will be,” he said.

 

It was that sentence that truly made her nervous. He would risk himself, but not her. He’d made that clear. If he feared any path would cause her harm he would not take it. Not ever.

 

“Do you think I fear damnation now?,” she asked. “I who caused our father’s death, who caused Robb’s and my mother’s? You think that I care one whit for what the gods will do to me? _What can they do that they have not done already?_ ”

 

Now the tears were falling freely from her eyes. He was blurry, but she could tell that the expression on his face was one of hurt and fear. She couldn’t help it, the tears wracked her body. To know true joy for the space of a moment and lose it just as quickly felt like a fresh wound over barely healed skin.

 

“Do not - do not leave me alone in this world, Jon… _please_ ,” she cried. She no longer cared for her dignity. What was dignity compared one’s very soul?

 

“You will never be alone, never, have I not promised you that a thousand times over? Do you think that there will be a time where I leave your side? Where I entrust your safety elsewhere? Do you think that I could live if you were not near?,” he asked. He took her in his arms and she burrowed into the comfort of his embrace. “There is no thing that could take me from your side.”

 

It felt so good to be in his arms. They were so strong and so gentle. A half-remembered conversation popped into her head at that, a feeling of nostalgia so great she almost toppled over. Instead she tilted her head up and caught his lips in her own.

 

He kissed her back, as though all of his energy for the past weeks had been taken up in not doing so, and she saw stars as his mouth molded to hers, his arms crushing her to him and supporting her all at once.

 

But then it all stopped.

 

“But we can’t,” he said. His dark eyes were half-crazed and he was almost physically shaking. “We can’t Sansa. I have to keep you safe. I have to keep you _all_ safe.”

 

“Jon,” she pleaded.

 

“Is it not enough? That I will keep you safe, always. Love you, always. Choose you, always?,” he asked her.

 

It occurred to her in that moment, how quickly one could get used to things. Was it not only a year before that she had prayed her big brother would come to her and say such things? Was it not only a year before that she had imagined a knight pledged to her honor, who would protect her, who would help her take her home back, keep her family safe? And yet, he had made her greedy. The feeling of safety he gave her made her greedy - the way the feel of a warm fire after a long ride could make you hungry. Needs bred needs. So no, it was not enough. Not nearly.

 

“It matters not,” she said, coldly. “You have always been as stubborn as a Stark.”

 

“They’re right,” he said to her, just as cold. “You really do look just like your mother.”


End file.
